


Darling

by bea_bickerknife



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Backstory ahoy, Banter (feat. Accents), Bisexual Murder Girlfriends, F/F, In Which the City's Sixth-Most-Important Financial Advisor is Smitten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-04-14 09:04:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14132748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_bickerknife/pseuds/bea_bickerknife
Summary: It's a word Esmé uses frequently, but far from indiscriminately.





	Darling

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I own none of the characters in this work, nor do I derive any remuneration from its posting.

Esmé Squalor isn’t sure she can remember the last time she _didn’t_ have a crush. 

Not that she’d ever call them crushes – that term hasn’t been _in_ since she was young enough not to find it nauseating – but infatuation is as fundamental a part of her life as oxygen or moisturizer or impractical footwear. There’s usually an attractive new assistant or a wealthy, well-dressed client to keep her entertained at work, and she’s been known – much to Jerome’s chagrin and therefore her delight – to hire household staff for the penthouse without so much as a glance at their résumé as long as a glance at their other assets proves satisfactory. Artists and newspaper reporters, chief executives and brain surgeons – the City is littered with eye candy from every social stratum, and Esmé’s always had a sweet tooth.

Of course, just as she’s too mindful of her figure to gorge herself on bonbons (or gummy sharks or salted black liquorice mousse or whatever the fashionable dessert _du jour_ happens to be), she’s also too mindful of her reputation to actually _sample_ much of that eye candy. On the rare occasion that outrageous flirting isn’t enough, she makes sure to pick someone gorgeous and fun and discreet – the kind of one-night stand whose face and body she’ll recognize with an illicit rush when they run into each other in public afterward, but whose name she can forget by the next morning.

Five “next mornings” and Esmé still can’t forget Georgina’s name.

 _This is why they’re called **one** -night stands_, she reminds herself, setting down her powder brush and frowning at her reflection in the unforgiving light of her vanity mirror, _not **five-** night stands_, because as it turns out, it’s tricky to forget a name once you’ve spent several non-consecutive evenings whispering it and screaming it and whimpering it into the soft, sweet-smelling skin at the crook of its owner’s neck.  

Repetition is a very, _very_ small part of the problem, and she knows it.

Repetition doesn’t explain why she hasn’t deleted the hypnotist’s number, or why she saved it in the first place.

Repetition isn’t responsible for the jolt in her abdomen when her phone rings, or the curtness of her “Hello?” when the name on the screen isn’t the one she wanted it to be.

And repetition has nothing to do with the fact that it’s 11:37 on a rainy Saturday morning, the front door has just closed behind Jerome on his way to the airport, and the second ring of an outgoing call is already trilling in her ear.  

“Hello?” Georgina nearly always answers on the third ring, and Esmé tells herself that’s the sort of thing she’d notice about anyone.

“Jerome’s been called out of town,” she says without preamble, switching the phone to speaker and reaching for her most opulent tube of oxblood lipstick.

“Has he, now?” Esmé can almost picture the sly smile spreading over her face, the way she toys with the handle of her cane when she’s plotting out a scheme. “Well, just how far out of town was he called?”

“Monsieur Squalor has received an urgent call to Paris.” The former actress’ French accent is impeccable, enhanced by a slight pout as she checks her lip color. “But I am sorry to report that his flight will be re-routed through Moscow,” she continues, suddenly and flawlessly Slavic, “where he will be detained for forty-eight hours due to an unfortunate misunderstanding about the status of his visa. The whole situation sounds _dreadfully_ inconvenient.” She snickers derisively before dropping the accent. “I mean, for him, anyway.”

“And I suppose you had nothing whatsoever to do with that inconvenience?”

“Oh, I may have called in a few favors,” breezes Esmé, as if it would be absurd for someone _not_ to know one or two people who would willingly hijack their husband’s airplane for them, “and I almost _definitely_ invented an international trade conference, but he should be deported long before he gets a chance to figure that part out." 

A low chuckle reverberates through the speaker. “So what you’re telling me is you’re free this weekend.”

“And most of Monday.” There’s something about making Georgina laugh that makes her feel just a little bit invincible, and before she can really think about it, Esmé finds herself pushing her luck. “So pack a toothbrush.”

The pause on the other end is fractional but heart-stopping. “Seventy-one bedrooms,” comes the reply, and Esmé’s heart starts pumping again, “but no spare toothbrushes?”

“Exactly how much overnight hostessing do you think I _do_?” Esmé asks, hoping as the question leaves her mouth that the connection is clear enough for Georgina to hear that it’s mock offense behind it, rather than the genuine article.

“Point taken,” says Georgina, and apparently the line is more than sufficiently clear, because the pleasant surprise in her voice comes through perfectly, along with a hint of something that sounds – to Esmé, at any rate – an awful lot like pride. “When should I plan to arrive?”

 _Now_. _Half an hour ago. Yesterday._ “In time for dinner? I’ve hired a perfectly _divine_ new chef.”

“Seven o’clock, then.”

“Call it six.”

“Six o’clock. I’ll bring a bottle of something.” A wry pause. “And my own toothbrush, apparently.” 

 “ _Marvelous_ , darling. I’ll see you soon.”

Georgina hangs up and the line goes dead, but Esmé doesn’t notice. Her reflection stares at her from the mirror, freshly-lined eyes wide with shock, lips forming a perfect scarlet O.

 _Darling_. _You called her **darling**_. 

All of a sudden, the word _crush_ doesn’t sound nearly as nauseating as it should.              

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was requested by an anonymous Tumblr user.


End file.
